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The Loss

9/5/2014

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The Loss
By Nurit Henig

“Don’t lose anything,” are my mother’s daily parting words; they follow me down Nachmani Street as I walk to Balfour Elementary.

Today as always I must guard the book bag, the sweater, and particularly the lunch bag with the sandwich and apple, and I am strictly forbidden to forget and leave the new copybook she bought me in the classroom “because then I won’t know what you have learned…”

This is a part of her soul. To a mother from Vilna nothing is more important than discipline and acquisition of education. She does not give up until I disappear from her view, and even then her voice still echoes from far away. “And stop daydreaming!”

I do daydream. Nothing is better. I am no longer within hearing range. I turn to the right, down the street, into Yavneh Street, I cross the street and I am at school. “And don’t chatter because it will be again commented on in your notebook.” Did I dream this part or did she really say it?

I do indeed chat with my bench mates. The teacher, Mrs. Boxer, commands me to move from one bench to the next like the Wondering Jew, until finally I sit by myself at the front bench, right under her supervision. This way she can see from above that I don’t fail other pupils by my chatting.

The worst is trying to concentrate sitting near the window facing the playground next to the Strauss Infirmary.

The treetops wave with the breeze, and I can hear the toddlers’ laugher, far away from mathematical divisions.

Numbers don’t speak to me. I need a story. Judah Maccabee at the head of his army, Sarah and Abraham at their tent’s entrance, Pharaoh’s daughter by the Nile. These stories are my escape from the strict discipline exercised by my teacher, who is the product of the Russian School and believes in using fear and threats.

Mother is not making it easy. Her demand of losing nothing is beyond my strength.

The athletic shoes were forgotten in the school yard. The key which hangs on a thread on my neck, fell down and was lost. A latchkey girl with no key.

“Explain to me again, how can one lose a key?”

“It disappeared. Maybe someone pulled it off during recess?”

“But I tied it securely with the string. Where is the string?”

“Lost…”


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The Silver Wedding Anniversary

1/11/2014

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                    The Silver Wedding Anniversary
                                                   By Nurit Henig          


Avishag Gabai unpacks a handbag made of good leather in  room 701 on the seventh floor. She glances at the watch on her cell phone. She  still has time; she needs a cigarette.

Lately she has returned to smoking, so she locates the  smoke alarm on the ceiling, pulls out a cigarette and a lighter and goes out on  the terrace. The blue landscape revealed to her is filled with smoke. She fills  up her lungs to capacity as she inhales, sighing with relief. 

She does not like and does not allow herself to be  pressured, but right now she is not relaxed.
 
Like all the gorgeous women of the old Meyuchas family  from Jerusalem, her skin is olive and her black hair flows in wild  curls.

Her beloved grandmother Miriam Meyuchas, whose roots are  deep into the holy land, taught her that it was best to keep everything  inside…”We, the Sephardic women, are proud and wise…” She whispered in her ear “You will be strong, Chikita, you hear?... La casa del jeque a la mujer.” (The  home belongs to the woman.)”

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Exploding Buses

10/26/2013

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With apologies for the long hiatus, which hopefully is over for an even longer time, I am happy to present you with a new story by the Israeli writer, Nurit Henig. This is a timely, disturbing, and fascinating story. Don't let the light tone and wit prevent you from seeing the truth...

                                            Exploding Buses
                                                               By Nurit  Henig

    “The problem with  this competition is that you can’t write a tragic story, since reality presents  such stories every day,” I said.
     “It’s only a story…  not something sacred… anything one wants to write is possible…” and I thought  about something from the macabre or absurd genres, but it must be strange… and  surrealistic, witty and not tragic, and most important, funny, as stated on the  announcement.
     “Let me see you  invent something funny about exploding buses,” insisted my  friend.    
     “Let’s say that…  Yes, I got it… Oded’s father works at an insurance company, and he develops a  new insurance policy. They call it “Explosion Policy” and it insures against  exploding buses, and not a few Israelis are showing in  interest.”
     “So what’s funny  about it?”
     “Someone calculates  that creating such a policy is financially rewarding for the insurance company,  since the odds of exploding in a bus are rather low. Otherwise, it’s not worth  it.”
     “You can’t make fun  of exploding buses,” said my friend when she decided to write for the  competition.


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And now for something a little different...

5/18/2013

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This new story by our guest author, Nurit Henig, is quite  different from our usual material.  A respectable, dignified and intelligent  older person is telling a story his great-grandfather passed on to him, and  which he wishes to pass on to new generations. Most appropriate for Personal  Histories, you would say. Except… something here is a little  strange…

                                 The  EYE
                       
An  Imaginary Autobiography
 
                                                                Nurit Henig

This is what my great-grandfather told me when I was a  child.

For many months the EYE hovered over the city, without eyelashes, without eyelids, dry  and lusterless. Never shutting, never winking.
Someone said that at midnight he saw it shed a tear, but  there was no other evidence, so we denied the rumor.
It was the size of an Arctic winter cloud with its edges  fading away. It would mean nothing to someone who had never visited the North  Pole, but we identified it immediately.

When it first appeared above the roof we expected the  grey rain, silvery and warm, like the rain that surprised us in the previous few  years.
But then its color changed into poisonous blue-green, and  finally it stopped above the tower – in the middle of the  square.
We knew we had to get rid of it before disaster  struck.
But there was no chance of “Strong Wind” or “Unexpected  Storm” or “Radioactive Rain” that would blow it to shreds.
You could not be sure of anything, so we decided to try  other ways.

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The Mirror

4/20/2013

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Dear Readers,

I have a wonderful new story from Nurit Henig; I am so thrilled to have another contribution from such a wonderfur author. This story is so utterly visual, so unusual, and so touching, and it relates the mother/daughter experience during hard times in such a positive and uplifting way, I find it quite unique. Enjoy!

                                                                   THE MIRROR
                                                                       By Nurit Henig

Mother looks at her  face in the round mirror.
She moves to the  side, disappears, and then comes back to me, inspecting, moving forward,  backwards. She smoothes one cheek back, straightens it, and then the other, as  if she was kneading, in soft plasticine, a face she promised would soon be  beautiful. 
 
The apartment is  always crowded with people and children, sounds and noises inside and out.  During summer our street is buzzing with human voices, on the sidewalks, the  road, in the backyards; coachmen are crying their wares, neighbors chat from  balcony to balcony. The houses are white, three stories high, and their roofs  white with laundry. Noontime in Tel Aviv is hot and humid, only in the evening  you can enjoy the western breeze as it comes from the  sea.

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The Mother of the Dreams

3/9/2013

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Warning -- this gripping story is not for the faint of heart... but I am happy to announce that I have persuaded Nurit Henig to send us a wonderful  new posting for Personal Histories. 


                                                 THE MOTHER OF THE DREAMS
                                                                     By Nurit Henig

Her childhood  has not been more miserable than other children’s, except for the dreams that  she remembers to this day, as she listens to her own children’s dreams and is  unable to tell them about hers.

She remembers  broken images, where she is abandoned, lost, coming home to a locked door,  losing her book bag or being severely scolded by her teacher. Then in high  school, during puberty, she died and was resurrected almost every night, until  she was afraid to fall asleep. But the worst nightmare was “The Operating Room  Dream” which appeared one night and stayed with her for years.

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Children's Games: A War Story

2/10/2013

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This is the Hebrew version of Nurit Henig's new story about the life and thoughts of a child during a war. I think it is universal to all children and all wars... and very beautifully written.  Please wee the previous entry to read the English version! It's a little different from my usual postings in the way it was formatted, but this is because the site keeps arguing with me that it does not understand Hebrew, and I had to trick it by seeing it as a picture...
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February 10th, 2013

2/10/2013

2 Comments

 
I am happy to post a second story by Nurit Henig (see her biography on the story "Yuda'le" below). Not only I find it an extremely well-writting story, but it is a powerful, universal account of a child's life and thoughts during war. 

                            
                         Children’s Games: A War Story
                                         By Nurit Henig

                                               

The three of us, Nili, Koby, and I, sat on our sand hill  which the truck dumped on the sidewalk.

The hill wasn’t only ours, it belonged to all the  residents on the street, who filled sacks to protect the shelters’ doors from  the air blast, but we turned it into a playground, and no one had the leisure to  chase us away. It happened a little after Passover, and after I had celebrated  my seventh birthday. 

Mother thought I was too old to play in the sand, but  there were no games in the little room we occupied on the third floor, except a  box of Pick-Up Sticks, dominoes, two packs of cards the grownups used for  playing Gin Rummy, and also an old chess set Father used to open when he was  home, but he was at the wars for a long time. It was late afternoon on Friday so  we knew we would have to separate any minute, since it was almost the  Sabbath.

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Who Are You, Teacher?

2/9/2013

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I am thrilled to post a new personal history from Israel! The story is generously  given to us by a distinguished lecturer and scriptwriter, Dr. Yitzchak  Enav-Winehouse. Enjoy! And please leave many nice comments since I hope to persuade Dr. Enav-Winehouse to send us more...

                             WHO ARE YOU, TEACHER?
                                                Yitzchak Enav-Winehouse
 
Ever since I can remember myself, I have taught much but  learnt so much more from my teaching. It all began a long, long time ago and in  another country. I was then no more than a naive, twelve year old and there,  wide-eyed in front of me were the “Kovshim,” the youngest age group in what is  now the legendary Zionist youth movement of Hashomer Hatzair. The clubhousewas  situated in the working class district of Hackney, the very heartland of  Cockney London. These were kids who came from homes, like my own, where the  only book to be found was a “sidur” or prayer book. They, like myself,  would learn, in a movement which seethed  with intellectual activity, of the worth and intoxication of reading. 

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Review for Yuda'le

2/8/2013

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I am delighted to post a very nice review that was sent to me by Dr. Yitzchak Enav (Winehouse), a noted lecturer  and scriptwriter. 

"I just found your delightful story: a lovely variation on Hamletian indecision and its devastating consequences. It has something very Jewish rather than Israeli  about its tone. Yudale's procrastinations remind me of the Yeshiva Bochar  dithering between two interpretations of a text, or the wondrous piece of  dithering on the part of the protagonist in the film Chinese Take-Away.  Terrific stuff!! Send me more ! Publish!"

 
 


 

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